Fiesta

I bought a one-way ticket to New York City for May 20th. And so an era is closing. As the days grow warmer, my departure approaches. And just as before in London, as I am planning my escape, the city unfurls its blossoms to me, a last ditch effort at seduction. Azaleas, magnolias, and flowers whose names I do not know. Flowers that beg me to learn their names. The city is fecund and dewy. It rains most nights, a warm, heavy rain, decadent like a monsoon.

As I stroll through Fiesta, the Latin-American supermarket, selecting Mexican pasteles, I feel almost wistful. For some reason, they always play oldies over the intercom here, a fact which, I admit, has influenced my devoted patronage of this place. I have memories of grappling with a mound of avocados, bobbing my head to Little Richard, dancing in the aisles as I pick breakfast cereal. I remember coming here with Zarla, when we still loved each other without reservation, and lurking in the produce, covertly ogling the poet Adam Zagajewski, watching him fondle pears. On my way out, I pass the jewelry counter. You can buy pendants of gold or silver, cut specially into the shape of your name. I am considering getting one. But instead of Nancy, it will say Texas.